Derek nodded. “That’s good. Once we know the particulars of Errol’s murder, we’ll be able to compare them to the details of the other four murders.”
“I’m taking Nic home tomorrow. I didn’t want her to accompany me on this trip, but she insisted. Why she has to be so damn stubborn . . .” Griff cleared his throat. “She thinks she has to be in the thick of things, getting emotionally involved and putting herself out there in harm’s way.”
“You know you wouldn’t change her if you could.”
“Damn right, I wouldn’t.” Griff glanced into the living room at the two women sitting side by side, deep in conversation. “Like I said, I’m taking Nic home tomorrow. But I want you and Maleah to stay here a couple of days and find out everything you can.”
“Sure thing.”
“Richter will be staying on for at least another week or two, keeping tabs on the police investigation and doing some independent investigating. Holt volunteered to go to Cullman to follow up on things there with Winston Corbett’s murder. I think he, of all people, can persuade Ben not to try to do any investigating on his own.”
“Agreed. And I think once Maleah and I finish up here, we should return to Georgia,” Derek said.
“You think Browning really knows something about these copycat murders?”
“He knows something, but my gut tells me he doesn’t know as much as he’s pretending he does. Maleah’s willing to play his cat and mouse game on the off chance he actually does know something and will willingly or inadvertently share it with us.”
Griff moved closer to Derek and lowered his voice. “I plan to send Luke Sentell to London. He’ll be traveling wherever the rumors take him, on to France and Switzerland and Italy.”
“You haven’t told Nic, have you?”
“No, not yet. She thinks I’m obsessed with the notion that I’m the killer’s real target and this killing spree is somehow connected to my past . . . to Malcolm York.”
“Is she right?”
Griff didn’t respond immediately and then before he could reply, Nic called to them. “What are you two talking about in there?”
“I was filling Griff in on Jerome Browning,” Derek lied as he entered the living room area of the suite.
“What a coincidence,” Maleah said. “I was doing the same thing—filling Nic in on my visit with Browning.”
“I ordered dinner half an hour ago,” Nic said. “It should be here in the next few minutes.”
“Anyone care for a drink?” Griff asked as he headed toward the bar area.
The room telephone rang. Griff paused and stared at the phone. Nic and Maleah stopped talking.
“It’s probably room service calling about our dinner order,” Maleah said.
When she stood, obviously intending to answer the phone, Griff told her he’d get it. He picked up the receiver and said, “Yes, this is Mr. Powell.”
Whatever the person on the other end of the line said, Griff did not reply. Without uttering a word, he replaced the receiver.
“Who was it?” Nic asked.
Griff looked at her.
Derek suspected bad news of some sort.
“Griff?” Nic prompted.
“I don’t know who it was, but the voice sounded male.”
“What did he say?” Nic rushed to Griff’s side.
Reluctantly, as if he considered lying to his wife, Griff finally replied, “He said ‘If I don’t decide to kill her first, your wife will make a lovely widow.’”
Chapter 10
The Assistant Superintendent, the Chief Inspector, and Inspector Yates Thompson, who was in charge of the Patterson murder case, met with Derek, Maleah, and Brendan Richter. Derek seriously doubted that even the inspector would have agreed to this meeting if not for Griffin Powell’s considerable influence. How Griff went about getting what he wanted, Derek never asked, but he had a pretty good idea that his boss used whatever means necessary to achieve his desired goal.
After personally assuring them that everything humanly possible would be done to find the person who had killed Errol, the Assistant Superintendent shook their hands again, as did the Chief Inspector. Pretty much as he had thought, these two men had been commanded to put in an appearance, an order no doubt issued by the Commissioner of Police himself. But it was unlikely that they were expected to do more than that—show up, talk the talk, make assurances and appease the Powell agents.
“Inspector Thompson will answer any questions you have,” the Chief Inspector said. “He will cooperate with you in any way possible and will keep you updated on the investigation.”
Once his superiors departed, the tall, rawboned, ebony-skinned Thompson invited them to sit, which they did. But he remained standing.
“My orders are to cooperate with you,” Thompson said. “And naturally, I will follow the Chief Inspector’s orders, although I am unaccustomed to civilians involving themselves in police business.”
“We understand,” Richter said. “But Errol Patterson’s murder is no ordinary murder case.”
“So I have been told.” Thompson glanced from Richter to Derek and then his gaze settled on Maleah. “You were Mr. Patterson’s friends, yes?”
“Errol Patterson worked as an agent for the Powell Security and Investigation Agency, just as we do,” Maleah replied.
Thompson nodded. “I understand other Powell agents have also been murdered in the past few months.”
“Before Mr. Patterson was killed, yes, there were four others connected to our agency. We suspect all four deaths were the work of a serial killer,” Derek said.
“One victim was an agent, one a secretary, one the brother of an agent, and the fourth the father of an agent,” Richter told the inspector.
Thompson nodded again. “And these four people were murdered in a similar manner and you suspect the same killer in all three?”
“That’s right,” Richter replied, a note of aggravation in his voice.
Thompson tapped a file folder lying on his desk. “Mr. Patterson died almost instantly. His jugular was punctured, his trachea severed and his carotid arteries slashed.” He paused, as if waiting for one of them to say something. When they didn’t, he continued. “His wife found his body in the bathroom next to the tub which was filled to overflowing.”
Derek and Maleah looked at each other, but said nothing.
“Were the others killed in a similar fashion?” Thompson asked.
“They were,” Richter said. “Was there anything else, anything unusual about the body?”
Thompson’s lips curved downward in a contemplative frown. “I assume you are referring to the triangular pieces of flesh cut from the victim’s upper arms and thighs.”
Yes, that was exactly what Richter had been referring to, that final piece of information that irrefutably linked Patterson’s murder to the other four.
“Yes,” Derek and Richter answered simultaneously.
“An autopsy will be performed,” the inspector said. “And a toxicology screening has been ordered. Mr. Patterson was a large man in his prime, a security agent trained to protect himself and others, so how was it possible for someone to overpower him? And why did his wife sleep soundly while her husband was being murdered?”
“They were both drugged.” Richter stated the obvious.
“We suspect so, yes.”
Derek’s opinion of Inspector Thompson as an investigator rose by several degrees.
“In the other four murders, the killer left behind no evidence that could help identify him or enable the police to track him,” Derek said. “Is that true in this case?”
Thompson grunted. “Unfortunately, yes.” He looked directly at Derek. “That is the sign of a true professional, is it not, Mr. Lawrence.”
Thompson had done his homework, no doubt running a check on the three of them, which meant he knew that Derek was a former FBI profiler.
“Professional in the sense that he was no amateur,” Derek said. “He is a skill
ed killer, which tells us that he’s killed before, perhaps numerous times.”
The thought that the copycat could be a gun-for-hire had crossed his mind, but that possibility was only one of several scenarios that he had considered. Until he had more evidence to back up any one theory, he had no intention of suggesting to Griff that the man they were hunting could be a professional assassin.
As if understanding Derek’s assessment of the situation, Thompson simply nodded before inquiring, “Is there anything else you would like to know?”
“I think Ms. Perdue and I have what we need,” Derek said.
“And you, Mr. Richter?”
“I would like to speak to the first responders on the scene,” Richter said. “As well as any witnesses your people interviewed. I’ll need copies of all the reports, photographs, and preliminary findings.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Perdue will be leaving Nassau tomorrow, but I will be staying on for several weeks, as the Powell Agency representative.”
Inspector Thompson barely managed to hide his negative reaction. He quickly turned his frown into a forced smile as he shook hands with each of them.
“I wish you both a safe flight tomorrow.” And then his dark gaze settled on Richter, each man sizing up the other. “I have the greatest respect for you, as a former ICPO agent, Mr. Richter. I suspect I may be able to learn a great deal from you.”
Yes, Inspector Thompson had done his homework. Derek didn’t doubt that the man probably knew what he, Richter, and Maleah had each eaten for breakfast that morning.
Nic knew her husband well enough to understand that he was not concerned about his own life, but was greatly concerned about her welfare as well as the lives of everyone associated with the Powell Agency. He was a man who took his responsibilities seriously. His primitive protective instincts made him a dangerous opponent when those he cared about were in danger, but those same instincts were his personal Achilles’ heel, his only weakness. Griffin Powell’s ability to love equaled if not surpassed the passion with which he hated. She admired his ability to stay calm under pressure, a trait she tried to emulate. But beneath that cool, controlled exterior, a violent rage smoldered just below the surface.
And it was that rage inside Griff that worried her.
They had calmly discussed the untraceable phone call he had received at the Nassau resort. She had struggled to match his restrained composure when faced with a threat against both of them.
If I don’t decide to kill her first, your wife will make a lovely widow.
“He’s taunting me,” Griff had said. “He wants me to know that all roads lead to Rome, that every murder is leading him closer to me.”
“Maybe he just wants you to think that. Maybe he’s trying to steer us in the wrong direction.”
“Maybe, but unlikely.”
Nic still wasn’t totally convinced that Griff was the ultimate target, that the copycat killings were connected to his past, to a dead man named York. Admittedly, that possibility frightened her far more than any other. Was that why she clung so doggedly to other theories?
At his request, she joined Griff in the agency’s home office, an area inside their house that had been designed to allow Griff to oversee his vast empire without ever leaving Griffin’s Rest. The Powell Building, located in downtown Knoxville, housed the inner workings of the agency, as well as the staff for the numerous Powell philanthropic endeavors. Each year, the Powell Empire required more and more employees, which meant that at the present time, approximately two hundred people and their families were at risk. Of course, those directly employed by the Powell Agency comprised only the tip of the iceberg. Indirectly, Griffin Powell employed countless thousands.
When she entered the state-of-the-art office suite, Nic paused in the doorway, allowing her gaze to travel around the room and pause on each occupant. Her initial thought—“round up the usual suspects”—would have made her smile if not for the seriousness of the situation.
Dr. Yvette Meng, the epitome of exotic elegance, stood away from the others, alone and infallibly serene. If her goal had been to be as inconspicuous as possible, she had failed. There was no way the dark-eyed beauty, whose very presence in any room commanded attention, could be overlooked.
Sanders stood behind Griff, who sat at the head of the conference table. She respected her husband’s guard dog, which was the way she thought of the quiet, reserved man with the perpetual hint of sadness in his dark eyes.
Barbara Jean, her friend and confidant, glanced up from where she sat in her wheelchair at the far end of the table. She offered Nic an encouraging smile. One of the many things Nic loved about Barbara Jean was her optimistic outlook on life, which considering the tragedies she had endured was in and of itself a miracle.
Powell agents filled five of the ten chairs at the table, leaving the end chair—her chair—unoccupied. As she entered the office, she quickly noted which agents had been called in for duty at Griffin’s Rest. Shaughnessy Hood, who had been with the agency since its infancy, a bear of a man at six-six and three hundred pounds; Luke Sentell, a former Black Ops commando, the most mysterious and most deadly member of the team; Saxon Chappelle, a Harvard graduate, who like Derek Lawrence possessed a borderline genius IQ. And then there were the two female agents: Feisty, petite Angie Sterling Moss, five months pregnant and presently on restricted duty. And Michelle Allen, an expert in martial arts, recruited after the death of her fiancé with whom she had owned a franchise of martial art studios throughout the state of Tennessee.
As Nic approached the conference table, Griff looked at her. The moment she took her seat, Griff broke eye contact with her and surveyed the others in the room.
“Starting today, from now until the Copycat Carver is apprehended, security at Griffin’s Rest will be tripled and access both in and out of the estate will be limited. Those living here should be safer than any of the Powell employees living and working on the outside. Unfortunately, we have no way to predict who the copycat has chosen as his next victim.”
An unnatural silence fell over the room.
“Luke will be leaving tomorrow for an assignment in London,” Griff said.
Nic tensed. Griff had deliberately not discussed Luke’s new assignment with her. She knew he had been trying to protect her, trying to postpone the inevitability that his actions would upset her, and trying to avoid yet another argument. But what she couldn’t get through his stubborn head was how that type of protective maneuver only made matters worse in the end.
“Angie, you may choose whether you want to stay here at Griffin’s Rest or if you prefer to take a temporary leave of absence. Talk it over with your husband and let him know that he’s welcome to stay here with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Angie replied. “Thank you.”
“I’m bringing in Cully Redmond,” Griff said. “He will join you three—Michelle, Shaughnessy, and Saxon—who will rotate between the house here and Dr. Meng’s retreat. You will be on duty twelve hours and off twelve, but you will not leave the estate.”
Griff had made his decisions without including her in the process. Oh, she could call him on it and he would tell her that they had discussed the situation. They had, to some degree, but talking about something and making definite decisions on how to handle the problem were not the same thing.
She knew he was doing what had to be done, and she agreed with his decisions, even the one to send Luke Sentell to London. She also knew that he would move heaven and earth to protect those he loved. And in her heart of hearts, she knew that he loved her more than anyone or anything and that he would die to protect her.
Poppy Chappelle loved her grandmother, loved the big old house in Ardsley Park, Savannah’s first suburb, a mere ten-minute drive from downtown, and loved her summers here with her father’s family. She had been barely two years old when her parents divorced, so she couldn’t actually remember a time when the three of them had been together. Her m
emories of her dad were sketchy, but she had a picture in her mind of a big, sandy-haired man who had laughed a lot and had called her “my little sugarplum.” He and his latest lady friend had died when his single-engine Cessna had crashed on their flight back from Vegas five years ago.
“Miss Poppy,” Heloise, her grandmother’s housekeeper and companion for the past forty years called to her just as she reached the front door. “Your grandmother wanted me to remind you that she is expecting guests for dinner. You need to be home no later than five-thirty.”
“I’ve already promised her that I won’t be late. She knows that I’m going sailing with Court and Anne Lee this afternoon.”
Heloise snorted. “Mr. Court and Miss Anne Lee are totally irresponsible. Your grandmother is sorely disappointed in those two.”
“It’s hardly their fault if they’re spoiled brats,” Poppy said. “Grandmother should blame their parents for their behavior, but she won’t criticize Aunt Mary Lee the way she does my mother because she’s her daughter.”
“I have no intention of getting into a conversation with you about the dynamics of the Chappelle family. It’s not my place to agree or disagree with you. I shouldn’t have said anything about your cousins. I simply meant to remind you not to be late this evening.”
Poppy rushed over to Heloise and hugged her. The dour-faced old maid who seldom smiled cleared her throat and patted Poppy’s back.
“You’re a good one, Miss Poppy. You and your uncle Saxon. You two are the best of the lot, if you ask me.” She shoved Poppy away and gave her a push toward the front door. “You behave yourself with those hooligan cousins of yours and don’t let them get you into any trouble.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
A car horn announced her cousins’ arrival. Poppy opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. She paused, glanced over her shoulder and waved at Heloise, then bounded down the brick steps and hopped into Court Dandridge’s black BMW M6 convertible.
Maleah and Derek ordered dinner in her suite, the same luxury suite that Nic and Griff had occupied before their departure from Nassau that morning. Nic had insisted she use the suite since it was paid for through the end of the week. The butler, included with the suite, cleared away the table, stacked the dishes on a serving cart and wheeled it away.
Dead By Morning Page 11
